


I'll Be Fine

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - High School, And Dean saw all of it, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Bobby is police chief, Bobby is taking care of Dean, Castiel is 24, Consulting Detective Castiel, Dead John, Dead Sam, Dean Has Issues, Dean's 17, Dean-Centric, Depression, Detective Castiel, EDNOS, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Insomniac Dean, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John killed Sam, John then killed himself, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bobby Singer, Selectively Mute Dean, bit of an age gap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-08 11:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dean Winchesters family wouldn't be what you called normal, but at least they were alive. They moved around a lot, and Dean got beaten. But at least he protected Sam and made it so they had money. But one day he had to take a test, a mandatory one on a weekend. He trusted his father would be out at a bar and Sam would be home alone. But he came back to a dead Sam, and suicidal father, who then committed suicide. He was left selectively mute and had PTSD. He was put with Bobby Singer, his surrogate uncle, and also the chief of police. When Dean starts going to the police station after school and meets Castiel Novak, a detective that works with the police station, will he learn to trust again?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you enjoy this story! It will be angsty for obvious reasons.  
> Sorry for this chapter being so short!

    "I know this is hard, Dean, after what happened with your father. But you have to understand, people want to help." Dean scoffed, the most sound he would make, and continued to stare at his sketch book, looking at the faint outline of an angel he drew. Why did he have to come here every week? He was fine, his father... his father was in the past, he wasn't even alive. "Dean, please, you haven't spoken a word since last year..." Dean shrugged as a response, making the angel's wings torn and bloody, his halo broken. What was there to say? Dean hadn't been there, it was his fault. He should have been there. "Sam's death was not your fault, you should know that,"  _Death._ Dean hated the word. That word could not describe Sam. Sam was everything, he was above cliques and labels. He took everything in stride and, most importantly, was Dean's brother. That was probably the only label anyone could put on the kid. The little brother of Dean Winchester. If you messed with him, you were basically signing a death warrant. So how could you limit him to such a dark, simple word as 'dead'? He was never actually dead, not even when he would see Dean dripping blood everywhere with a black eye, not when he was pushed into the TV stand by his own father, and not when he saw their father slowly killing himself with alcohol. He was always smiling, always happy, he hung out with friends. 'Dead' could not define him, he always had life shining in him. Until the day Dean came home and saw his father sitting on the couch, a gun pressed to his own head, looking as though he really wanted to pull the trigger. It freaked Dean out, it really did. He didn't know what had caused it. But then he saw Sam's pale body, his eyes blank, and he wasn't moving. He didn't move when Dean shook him, or when Dean pleaded for him to open his eyes. Dean heard the gun shot behind him, but he was just trying to get Sam to  _wake up,_ _god damn it_ _!_

    But, after all that, after Dean raising Sam... Their drunk father had to ruin it all. He already ruined Dean's life, why did he have to mess with Sam's. What gave him the right to take Sam's life away? What gave him that power? Why wasn't Dean there? What force of evil wanted his father to get just a little too rough with Sammy? Yes, Dean was used to the beatings and whippings and the knives, but he kept Sam away from that. He didn't deserve that, he deserved more than the dingy apartment they lived in and PB&J sandwiches made from Dean's meagre salary. But, John had to ruin that, he couldn't let Sammy see the good things in life, could he? He couldn't let Sam get married, he couldn't let him grow up. He couldn't let him live. Dean transferred his anger onto the paper, putting a face on the angel, making him look angry. Angry at God, was what Dean was shooting for. For letting all these terrible things happen. Murders, rape, abuse, and Sam...

    Dean wishes it was him, oh god, how much he wished it. Sam would get over it, eventually, get a proper education, be the one living with their surrogate uncle, and be free of their father. "Dean? Dean, are you okay?" Dean got brought back by the sound of his therapist's voice, but still was looking at the sketch. He nodded and noticed his breath was coming out shallowly, the memories plaguing his mind controlling his breathing. He evened it out and glanced at the clock, 5 more minutes and he would be out of this hell. He'd go back to Bobby's and lock himself in his room, mentally preparing himself for the coming week, continuing to draw. He'd be going to a new school in a new state. One without Sam or Lucifer or any of his old friends... The first time he'd go to school without Sam by his side. The first time he wouldn't get into pointless fights just because someone had the audacity to pick on his brother.

    "Dean... I think that wraps this up. I think I want to start seeing you twice a week, would that be okay?" No, no it wouldn't. Dean didn't need help, getting help was admitting weakness, Dean couldn't do that. But he had to acquiesce, or she would think something more was going on. Truthfully, something else was going on. Dean's thinning, withering frame and dead eyes screamed that. But he wouldn't tell anyone, that was a weakness, he was trained not to show weaknesses. He didn't need help. So he shrugged and nodded, standing up and watched as she followed. He closed his sketchbook, making sure not to let her see it, as it would probably make her more worried. He opened the door and started to walk down the long hallway, pulling his black sweater sleeves over his hands, knowing that his therapist was getting suspicious of his long sleeves, as he had worn them all summer. He wasn't self-harming, of course, he would never admit to being that messed up. He just didn't like people staring at him, and wearing sweaters that covered him and hung off him felt safe. He felt like everyone was looking at him, and could read the abuse and insecurity, and his whole list of problems just from glancing at him. Logically, he knew it was impossible, but it was still a thought. He hugged the sketchbook close to his chest, gripping it tightly, as though it was a life line.

    He opened the door at the end of the hallway, nodding at his uncle and leaned against the wall by the exit. He laid his head against the wall, knowing Bobby and Hannah, his shrink, would be talking for a while. About if Dean was making progress and if he was talking and appointment times, along with his long sleeves. Bobby had been very worried about them, but, as expected, Dean didn't say anything, just showed him his arms. But, that probably made him more worried as he now didn't have any theory on why Dean was wearing the sleeves. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, the many sleepless nights catching up to him. He was almost 17, most kids his age would wish for more sleep. Truth be told, Dean did too, but the nightmares burned into his eyelids wouldn't go away. He mostly just stayed awake until exhaustion took over, and then his dreams were mostly dark abysses. He was thankful for that.

    Bobby walked over to him about 20 minutes later and gestured that it was time to leave. Dean nodded and kicked off the wall, following his uncle to his old pickup truck, the chipping paint looking like it was done forever ago. Which, Dean guessed, it was. He climbed in, flinching at the loud closing of the doors. It reminded him of leaving motels at 3 in the morning, of the Impala's doors slamming shut, of Sammy sleeping in the backseat, and trying to get his dad to pull over because he was drunk. God, why did everything have to revolve around that point in his life?! Dean knew it wasn't as simple as telling yourself you don't want to think about that stuff, and it magically happens. But, why did everything have to remind him of the abuse, or of Sam? He was getting very tired of it, and he put his head against the window, letting the coolness ground him in the present. He couldn't let this break him, Sam wouldn't want that. But, truth be told? It already had. And he was not dealing with it well. When his father broke him, when he whipped and carved, Dean always picked up his broken pieces and put himself back together. If not to keep himself sane, for Sam. 

    Dean practically ran to his room as they entered the rusty old house Bobby lived in. He did not want to have the conversation they always had after Dean saw his shrink. He didn't want Bobby to try and coax him to talk, or to show him his sketch book or the reason for his sleeves or any of his damn problems. Dean sighed in relief as he shut his door behind him, this was his safe space. The outside world didn't affect him here. But, then again, it did. The memories of Sam's dull eyes, and his blood spreading around his head like some sort of twisted halo. The memories of trying to get him to wake up, and turning around, and seeing his father's blood decorating the walls. He shook his head, scrunching his nose at the warmness on his cheeks, really hoping it wasn't tears. Of course, it was. He was just relieved that he hadn't cried in front of Hannah. He had never done that, and it would raise a bunch more questions from her. He sighed and opened to the angel, kind of proud of his sick creation. It looked good and might go into his portfolio for college. It was demented, but no artist could deny it was decently done.

    Dean didn't have much confidence, but he did know he was a fairly good artist. A lot of people had called him extremely talented, but that felt too much like a stretch to him. He walked over and sat on the bed that Bobby had bought for him, but that he rarely used because it was too comfortable. He sat down on the edge, and opened to a new page, just starting to draw, not know necessarily what he was drawing. After about 20 minutes, it occurred to him. It was an outline of a body, the body marred with scars and bruises. Behind the body was pure darkness and wispy little hands reached out, scratching and pulling the body closer to the darkness. Dean immediately closed the book, knowing what he had drawn. He'd drawn  _himself_. He'd drawn his demons and all the scars that he wouldn't allow anybody to see. He sighed and closed his eyes, getting up and sitting on the ground leaning against the bed frame. God, why couldn’t he be normal? Why was his life so royally screwed? Why did Sam's life get taken away from him so soon?

    Dean sat there for a while until Bobby came into his room, not surprised to see that Dean was on the floor with a blank expression on his face. "Hey, buddy, I gotta go to work for a couple hours. You going to be okay?" The brunette didn't look away from the wall, but offered a nod to let the other man he had heard him, and that he would indeed, be okay. Or, at least as okay as he ever could be. After Sam and his father, Dean didn't think he would ever actually be  _okay_ again. But he could put on a mask, he could pretend. He didn't need Bobby worrying about him, the man already had his demanding job as the police chief. He had already explained to Dean that after school, Dean was to stop by there and do his homework and whatever else within Bobby's office. Dean thought that was absolutely ridiculous, but Bobby and his Shrink had apparently agreed that it was a good idea, and would be beneficial to Dean. He heard Bobby close the door as he walked out to go to his job, leaving Dean alone in the big, empty house. It was so silent, more silent than it had ever been with Dean. For some reason, he always had music playing when Bobby left, and now he wished that he had put it on before the man left. The silence was deafening, but Dean couldn't get himself to stand up. The depression and anxiety weighing down on him made it hard to do much of anything. He calculated in his head how long he could just sit there without breathing or anything of the sort. But then his brain reminded him of the damage that could do, and he decided to forego that.

    He sat there for the next few hours, with only the silence that was also somehow pounding inside his head, and his own screaming thoughts. He could usually channel the thoughts out, all the  _you're not good_ _enough's_  and  _you were_ _a mistake's_ , but this time he couldn't. God, he hated the silence. He hated the phantom weight on his chest and legs that prevented him from getting up and putting on music or drawing or doing anything really. All he could do was stare blankly at the wall and listen to his damaging thoughts, the words beating him down and bringing him up again, just to repeat the process. He stayed like that until he heard the door open again, and he knew Bobby was home. He knew that the first thing Bobby would do is check on him. He would be worried if he saw Dean in the same position, not even moved an inch, but he'd found Dean in worse states, so Dean didn't make any effort to move. Though, he wasn't sure he would succeed if he did try. The ache and weight inside of him didn't go away. If anything, it grew. The door to his room opened slowly and quietly, probably as to not wake him if he was by some chance asleep. Bobby peaked into his room and sighed as he saw Dean. "Are you alright?" At that, Dean shrugged. What was the correct answer? Yes, he was alright. He wasn't physically hurt, there were no more beatings or protecting Sammy or anything like that.

    But the weight was just  _so_ heavy and he couldn't control it and couldn't make it go away and all he could do was sit there, and was that anyone definition of okay? Feeling so numb and tired that you couldn't even move? But still being glad that you were unharmed in any physical way? Was it just Dean that felt like this, but still didn't feel inherently  _bad_? Just  _numb_  and  _tired_ and like he just wanted to sit there until he died? The train of thought was cut off by Bobby laying his hand on Dean's shoulder, looking at him with a worried expression. "Dean, are you okay?" The weight holding his head down, and only looking at the wall lifted up, and Dean was left wondering if the weights on the rest of his body were going to go anywhere soon. He nodded stiffly, hoping Bobby would get the message and leave him alone. "Alright, son, I'm going to go to bed. Make sure to get some rest. Your first day of school is in four days, remember?" Dean nodded stiffly again, not moving any other places of his body. Bobby sighed and got out of the kneeling position he was in, walking out of Dean's door with a single worried backwards glance.

    Dean took in a deep shaky breath, willing himself to not have a panic attack.  _You can do this, you can do this, you can do this, you can do this, you can do this..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dean Winchester!" At that, Dean raised his hand, knowing the teacher would know that he didn't have to speak in class. Bobby came down before school started to inform them about Dean. And, him being the Sheriff and all, he was assured Dean would have no problem. A flash of recognition flashed in the teachers face, probably remembering his name, and he moved on without a fuss. The girl looked at him again, after watching the little scene. "How come you don't have to say anything?" Dean sighed lightly and picked up the notepad Bobby supplied him with to communicate with others. He messily scrawled out his answer. 'I'm mute'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Hope you enjoy this chapter! lmao i could've made it longer but im tired, i've slept 3 hours in the last 2 days, you gotta love that insomnia

    Dean sighed deeply as he stood outside of the new school, steeling himself and pulling his body to its full height. It would be better to be known as that mysterious kid who never spoke than the shy, mute, freak. No matter what happened, he wouldn't let people see him that way. He still wouldn't speak, god no, but the least he could do was show some fake confidence. He walked in, not making eye contact with anyone, but at the same time, not looking at the floor like he usually would. Dean eventually reached his locker, cursing the fact that it was on the opposite end of the school. He shoved his things in, keeping his Calculus BC books, his notepad, and his sketchbook. Yes, he was in 11th grade, but he was a bit ahead of his peers. Not so much in math, but he was very advanced in reading. It wasn't that surprising, Dean spent almost all of his free time either reading or drawing, and he now did have a lot of free time. He wanted to get a job to help Bobby with paying for him, but Bobby assured him he was making enough to still live better than others while looking after Dean. 

    And there was the issue that a job for a teen would most likely have some kind of human interaction, and the thought of speaking to other people on a daily basis made Dean more than happy to agree with Bobby. He shook his head, adjusted the leather jacket he was wearing and started to his first class, that was thankfully somewhat near his locker. Normally, he would wear a baggy sweater and dark jeans, but on the first day, you made first impressions. He didn't need anyone bugging him on top of everything else. He was just wearing a dark red t-shirt with his black leather jacket. To finish it off he was wearing black jeans with his beat-up work boots. He got into the class just in time and scanned over the seats. There was a free one in the front of the class, about 3 seats away from the middle. No way he was going to take that one. His eyes quickly found one in the back right corner, placed by a girl with red hair that had her face buried in a Lord of The Rings book. He walked over to that one, ignoring all the curious stares he was getting. He sat in the chair next to the red-head, and the girl immediately looked at him, apparently surprised. However, the surprise suddenly quickly turned into sadness. Though, Dean couldn't tell why. He just sat down in the most practical seat for himself, what's up with the weird look? "You're new, aren't you?" Dean nodded, hearing the teacher introducing himself as Mr Smith. Well, that's a boring name, he thought idly. Most of Dean's attention was on the red-head, who looked even more saddened, as though him being new somehow affected her. "Well, for future reference, don't sit by the girl who is routinely made fun of. It'll hurt your reputation a bit," At that, she got cut off by the teacher yelling out, "Charlie Bradbury!" At that, she yelled out a short 'here', and her attention didn't shift back to Dean. At first Dean's eyebrows furrowed, why would anyone make fun of this girl? She was actually pretty cute and had good taste in books. But then he shrugged, who cares what people thought of him? And she could probably be a good friend, that is if they ever got past the whole mute thing. 

    "Dean Winchester!" At that, Dean raised his hand, knowing the teacher would know that he didn't have to speak in class. Bobby came down before school started to inform them about Dean. And, him being the Sheriff and all, he was assured Dean would have no problem. A flash of recognition flashed in the teachers face, probably remembering his name, and he moved on without a fuss. The girl looked at him again, after watching the little scene. "How come you don't have to say anything?" Dean sighed lightly and picked up the notepad Bobby supplied him with to communicate with others. He messily scrawled out his answer. 'I'm mute', it read, and Charlie's eyes softened a bit as she read it, and he hoped she didn't ask about it like most people did, "Ah, that sucks. Well, with the way you carry yourself, I doubt you'll be bullied for that little fact," She commented, and Dean tuned out the teacher, as he was just explaining the class and other dull things. 'Speaking of which, why do you get made fun of?' Charlie's expression immediately became closed off, and Dean immediately tried to write out that he was sorry, but she stopped him. "No, no, it's fine. I just thought that we had a good little conversation and I don't want to ruin it,"  

    Dean raised one of his eyebrows. What could've she done that was so bad? 'Please don't tell me you murdered someone,' He wrote out, jokingly, smiling when Charlie smiled at the comment, glad that he had helped her relax, even if it was only a bit. "Obviously not. I was caught making out with Gilda, the school's most popular cheerleader, and, even though we were both consenting, she made it out to be like I forced her into it," Charlie told him, looking down, embarrassed. "I mean, I should've expected it, but I thought we were more than a casual fling, y'know?" At that she looked up, trying to gauge Dean's expression. Dean's face was a mix of pity and anger, immediately hating the Gilda chick she mentioned. 'I don't like Gilda', was what Dean wrote, feeling as though it didn't need any more elaboration. Charlie smiled at him brightly, obviously not used to people taking her side. Dean felt a bit sorry for her but knew that if he showed that, she may not accept it. He knew he didn't like people showing pity for him, hated it even. His past was exactly what it was called, his past, and he didn't need a constant reminder of it whenever he went in public. He put down the notepad and focused on the teacher again. Of course, he just started handing out a small review worksheet from Calc AB, knowing that most of the students will have forgotten everything they learned the year before. Dean rolled his eyes and spent a total of 10 minutes to finish it, while the rest of the class took the rest of the period. Normally, before everything happened, he would've taken longer, but, very surprising, he didn't have that much to do during summer. And that left him with enough time to study all his classes, and even get a bit ahead in all of them. He usually wouldn't do that, but he was bored out of his mind, and it helped to distract him from all the memories. His hand started to cramp from drawing all the time. So, when he wasn't drawing, he was studying. If he threw himself into work, he could just focus on the work and nothing else. He shook his head and pulled out his sketchbook, opening it up to a new page. 

    He thought for about a minute before starting to draw a regular angel, the before photo of the twisted angel he drew the other day. He barely registered that the class ended until Charlie tapped his shoulder. His head jerked up, and his body tensed, but once he saw that it was just Charlie, he relaxed again. She looked slightly concerned, but smiled anyways, and told him that class just ended. Dean nodded and shut his sketchbook, picking up all his stuff, seeing that his worksheet had been picked up. "You're really good at art, are you self-taught?" Charlie asked, and Dean flushed, knowing that she saw his drawing. Though, she didn't seem judgmental, so that was good. He nodded, standing up and planning to go to his next class. Charlie walked beside him until they reached the door. "Whoa, that's cool. What class do you have next?" She asked, and Dean wrote on his hand this time, it is easier than pulling out his notebook. 'AP Lit', was what he wrote down, and he saw Charlie light up. "Me too! I'll show you where it is!" Dean smiled at her brightness, knowing that he was probably her only friend for a long time. Which was a bit sad, but made Dean feel good. He liked the idea that he helped her become happier. He followed her to another hallway, to another classroom that was filled with books. He sat next to Charlie once again, knowing that even if he didn't want to sit next to the red-headed girl, he would feel uncomfortable sitting anywhere else. Besides, why wouldn’t he sit next to Charlie, she was really nice, and if people actually listened to her side of the story, they'd see that. But of course, their heads were too far up their asses to notice that the cheerleader chick was bullshitting them. They couldn't even tell the truth from lies. He sighed once again, knowing that to get all riled up about this wouldn't do him any good. He picked up his art book once more and flipped to the drawing he was working on.  

    The teacher sat up from her chair a little bit later, announcing that she was Mrs Laprade and that she'd be their Literature teacher for that year. After that, she called attendance, and allowed him to not speak, just like the last class. He got more curious stares after that, but he didn't pay much attention, more focused on the angel that he was drawing. His attention was ripped away when Charlie tapped his shoulder, "She handed out a work sheet," Dean rolled his eyes and grunted in annoyance. She smiled, and turned to her own paper, while Dean started on his. Just like Calc, he finished it way sooner than everybody else did, going back to his drawing. He sighed, knowing most of this day would be boring, and then he'd have to go to the police station where a bunch of old guys would be. 

    The only semi-exciting thing to go on was during lunch when a group of kids walked up to where Dean was sitting. They were all cheerleaders and jocks, who all looked way to entitled for their own good. "Oh, so the freak finally got a friend? And he's cute too, have you finally stopped being a lesbian?" The girl snarked, glaring at Charlie. She must be Gilda. Dean's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he wished he could talk and put this girl in her place. "No, Gilda, I still love the pussy, this is Dean. We just met each other today," Charlie snarked back, and Gilda was obviously put off by her choice of vocabulary. One of the football jocks looked at Dean, noticing he was glaring heavily at the group, but not saying anything. "What, cat got your tongue,  _freak?_ " That was the last straw on the camel's back for Dean. He stood up and stalked to the football player, who was wearing a generic letterman jacket, looking as stupid and mindless as the rest of the idiots in their little entourage. The guy's eyes challenged Dean to do something, and do something he did. He planted a swift punch to the side of the black-haired guy's face, sending him to the ground. If there was anything he learned from his old man, it was how to fight. The cheerleaders let out little squeaks of surprise while the rest of the football players charged at him. It was obvious that he was outnumbered, but there was no chance in hell he was going to back down. He got a few of them down, kicking some crotches and punching some faces. But, in the end, he was defeated. He got kicked and punched a few times before they went away, leaving Dean there, bloody and angry. He spat on the ground, blood coming out of his mouth, and looked at Charlie. 

    She was staring at him in horror, and Dean was immediately afraid he'd just ruined whatever relationship they had. But, she was more concerned, it turned out. She fussed and told him to grab his stuff and that she'd bring him to the nurse. At first, he'd rolled his eyes at the proposition, but once he started walking, he almost immediately collapsed. He must've sprained his ankle while trying to get the upper hand on those guys. In the end, Charlie grabbed his stuff, but he limped by himself to the office, shooting cold glares at anyone staring at him. His ankle hurt like hell, but he wouldn't let Charlie help him to the office. The office ladies looked at him in concern and directed them to the nurse's office, where he got checked out. His ankle was actually broken, and to avoid having permanent damage, he'd have to have crutches, but Dean refused. He would not let those dicks see him in crutches just because of one little fight. Besides, his dad had done worse on him, and he survived. He wouldn't give up now. They ended up calling Bobby, which Dean had tried his best to stop them from doing, but it hadn't helped, and now Bobby was coming from work to pick him up. 

    Dean said a quick goodbye to Charlie, smiling as she thanked him for beating up those assholes. He limped to Bobby's old, beat up pick-up truck. Once he got in, he could feel Bobby's concern and disapproval as potent as the smell of leather in the car. Dean rolled his eyes as Bobby's lecture started as they drove to the police station. Somewhere along the way, Dean stopped listening. Maybe that was why his father beat him, because he never listened. But Dean dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. He listened, he listened to everything that mattered. He did everything that was asked of him, but John would just find something else to complain about, something else to punish Dean with. He opened the door right as they stopped, wanting to get out of the tense atmosphere that was in the car. He followed Bobby in, limping slightly and holding back little whimpers of pain. No way was he going to fucking  _whimper_ because of a little broken bone. He was better than that, but he did sigh in relief as they arrived at Bobby's office, it was a reflection of the man's personality. Organised chaos, there was no doubt in Dean's mind that Bobby knew where everything was in the mess of a room. He settled into one of the chairs and pulled out his sketch book, planning to finish the picture he never got to at school, on account of acting as a personal punching bag to some brainless morons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments sharing what you think, please! And expect an update soon!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe because of all the running and walking you did on it, smart one, his brain helpfully supplied him with. He opened the door and looked up to meet Castiel's eyes. He was once against struck by the beauty of the bright blue of them. If only he had a good personality to match his stunning eyes, instead of being an asshole. Dean pushed past the officer, or detective, or whoever he was, trying not to show how much pain he was in on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one week from me? That's practically unheard of! Anyways, Castiel is a bit of a prick in this chapter, but only at the beginning, okay? I'm kind of trying to do the thing that they did in the show, where at first he's uncaring and cold and then he warms up. I don't know, im tired. Anyways, enjoy! Also, sorry if there are any errors in the spelling

    Dean was almost finished with the angel drawing when the door to Bobby's office opened, causing Dean to look up immediately. It was almost in his nature, whenever a sudden noise happened, even if it was quiet, he stopped whatever he was doing and looked. There would've been so many times where his father got the sneak on him and Sam if he didn't learn to do that. However, instead of his father's cruel brown eyes, he met breath-taking cerulean eyes, which widened once they met Dean's green ones. However, the man quickly looked away to stare at Bobby. That gave Dean a chance to scan over him, which he took gladly. He had slightly tan skin and was wearing a beige trench coat with a suit underneath. Dean almost laughed at the guy's fashion sense, as he had none. But, he still was devastatingly handsome. "I'm sorry to be intruding, Mr Singer, I was informed that your nephew would not arrive until two hours from now," The man said, and Dean fell in love with his voice as well. It was deep and gravelly, making Dean want to hear more of it. Though, at the moment it did sound a bit bored and dead-pan. "You can call me Bobby, Castiel, and I'm sorry about that. Dean seemed to have gotten himself into a bit of... trouble. Now, what are you here for?" The man, Castiel, nodded and sat down in the seat next to Dean that faced Bobby. What the hell kind of name was Castiel? Did his parents  _want_  the guy to get bullied? 

    "Well, Bobby, I was called in for the Miko Yuki case, and was hoping to go over a few things with you," Miko Yuki... that sounded familiar, maybe Dean had read something in the papers about her. "Oh, yes, that case. I appreciate the offer, but I think we have it covered," Bobby replied to the blue-eyed man. At that, the man's eyes narrowed and scanned over Bobby and his desk. "No, you don't. You haven't been sleeping that well, most likely because your nephew has had you worried ever since he moved in with you. He moved from an abusive household, one of which you are familiar with, due to yourself being raised in similar conditions. Something must have happened, something big and traumatic for his situation at home to be recognised and him being placed into your care. However, with the extra weight of this no doubt  _baffling_  case, I'm sure you are pretty tired by now. You've had approximately 4 cups of coffee today, and were planning on making more. Your nephew has been seeing a therapist for months, but no noteworthy process has been made, as he still is selectively mute and will not talk. This has been bothering you, along with his tendency to wear long sleeves, even though he is doing nothing to harm himself deliberately, 

    That is if you don't count starving yourself or causing fights in school harm. But, of course, he isn't doing it on purpose. It's just sometimes his depression and anxiety don't allow him to eat, or anything for that matter or he just feels like he needs to be punished, so he starts fights, but that's none of my concern. I simply want to help you when you are out of your depth, such as now. The death of Miko Yuki is no doubt simple, and if you would allow me to look at her body, I'm sure I could solve it rather quickly," The man rattled off, and Dean couldn't be there anymore. He would stay around If it was any other day, but it just seemed like that day was full of douchebags and assholes coming to him from all angles. And even if that Castiel guy was insanely attractive, he could not stay there while that guy basically relayed his recent life story back to him. He didn't need that reminder, and certainly not from someone as pompous and smug as that guy seemed to be with Bobby's surprised expression. But, that smugness washed away as he saw Dean get up, which Dean saw as a victory. He winced as he put weight on his ankle, and he ran as quickly as he could out of that room that suddenly seemed too small to have them all in there. He cursed at the pain that flared up in his ankle, making his leg want to buckle underneath him. He took the first hiding place he found, which seemed to be a broom closet. But, knowing Bobby, he'd look in all of Dean's hideouts before coming around and checking the police station. 

    Though, that Castiel guy may fucking  _deduce_  where Dean was, but he could probably also  _deduce_  that if he got too close to Dean, he'd end up with a broken jaw. That was a bit of an over exaggeration, Dean would never break the guy's jaw unless he thought he was dangerous. But, he did have a good enough right hook to do it, Dean didn't doubt that. He sighed and slid down the wall of the closet, opening his sketch book once again, now using a pen to do the final line art of his art piece, hoping to distract himself from everything going on around him 

    That was until, of course, he heard a knock at the closet door. "I'm sorry, but you're worrying Bobby enough to where he called and asked me where you were," Dean rolled his eyes at the same deep voice that had rattled off a bunch of Dean's personal life. He pulled out his notepad and ripped out a page, writing a very large 'Casse-toi!' On the paper and sliding it underneath the door. He heard Castiel pick it up and scoff at his immaturity. "Firstly, I can speak and read French, secondly, this door doesn't lock. I could technically open it right now, though I doubt you want me to," Dean sighed, knowing the other man wouldn't give it up. He gathered all of his things, which wasn't much, just his sketchbook, notebook, a pencil, and a pen. He hissed as he put weight on his bad ankle, immediately lifting it off the ground. Fuck,  _fuck_ , that got worse.  

 _Maybe because of all the running and walking you did on it, oh smart one_ , his brain helpfully supplied him with. He opened the door and looked up to meet Castiel's eyes. He was once against struck by the beauty of the bright blue of them. If only he had a good personality to match his stunning eyes, instead of being an asshole. Dean pushed past the officer, or detective, or whoever he was, trying not to show how much pain he was in on his face. Dean hadn't seen Castiel when Bobby gave him a tour of the department about a week ago, and that was when most of the officers were there. So, either he was on break, or he didn't work here full time. Dean hazarded a guess at the latter by the way he asked for a case. Normal detectives would wait for a case to be given to them, not say that the police were out of their depth with a case, and offer to solve it for them. He thought he was in the clear when Castiel didn't say anything but whipped around once the blue-haired man had the gall to grab his wrist. He should know better, with the fact that he had been the one to learn about Dean's abusive past, and not having Dean tell him about it. "Your ankle, you need to get it checked out," He commented, looking at Dean like it wouldn't be something to discuss, more like it would happen. And taking into account his overall demanding personality, Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't have a say in whether it happened or not. 

    But that didn't mean he wouldn't try and get under the man's skin. So, he shrugged and tugged his wrist out of the man's grip. Castiel wasn't stupid enough to where he'd grip too hard, and cause Dean to have a panic attack or something of the like. He began to walk away, provided, with a limp that would be impossible to get rid of with the pain that was in his ankle at the moment. "Walking is a stupid move and you know it, you're just going to end up damaging it worse," Castiel called out when Dean was still relatively close. He turned back to Castiel and hoped he gave him a look that would say piss off and that he didn't care all in one. But, judging by the amused look on the man's face, he guessed he succeeded in looking like a disturbed cat or something. He huffed out a breath of indignation and nodded, almost not being able to deal with the pain in his ankle. Which was ridiculous, as he once lived for an entire week with a broken arm, given to him by his loving father. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd been in pain, maybe he needed to build up his pain tolerance again. Dean's thought process was cut off by Castiel picking him up, which caused Dean to let out an undignified squeak that he would never admit to making, even in a court of law under oath. Though, technically, he didn't believe in God, so why would being under oath change anything? Maybe it was more about the morals of it, but Dean decided to stop following that thought process. God, he really needed to sleep soon. 

    They reached the first-aid place that they, for some reason, had in the police station. But, it really looked more like just a little corner with a computer and medical supplies. Castiel finally put him down on one of those hard, uncomfortable hospital beds that they use when you're being examined. He expected a nurse to be called or something, but instead, Castiel sat down. Fuck no, Dean was not going to sit there while Castiel fucking examined his ankle like he actually gave a shit about Dean and his little sob story. However, Castiel seemed to sense that would be his next move, and picked up his bad ankle, securing it so Dean couldn't move away without causing more damage. He obviously rethought that, though, knowing that causing more damage would not stop Dean from doing what he wanted to do. So, he then made it so it'd be impossible to even move his leg in any way that would bring harm to him. Dean rolled his eyes as the other tugged off his shoe and sock like he was a toddler that needed help getting undressed. 

    Castiel gently examined his ankle, and Dean let out a bit more than a whimper when he turned it slightly. Okay, taking off his shoe had made it worse, great. Maybe he should've stayed in the closet. At that, he stifled a giggle. How ironic, being convinced to come out of the closet by a handsome man. Cas looked up at him suspiciously but continued on. "Broken due to a fight, was broken while facing against three others, you attempted to trip one of them up, but they kicked your ankle away, unknowingly breaking it. You didn't want medical attention and continued to walk on it, not informing anyone else of your pain, and therefore making it worse," He observed while putting an ice-cold pack on Dean's ankle. He sucked in a breath,  _fuck fuckity_ _fuck._ God, that hurt a lot, but it didn't distract him from the things that Castiel had just said. It was all true, and that surprised Dean even more. He'd thought that most of the stuff he said in Bobby's office were just lucky guesses based on loose observations. But, apparently, he wasn't just making some lucky guesses. Dean opened his notepad, writing down his question with slightly shaky hands. 'How do you do that?' Was what he wrote down, and he passed it over to Castiel, who smirked slightly when he read it. "I'm good at reading people," Was all that he offered to Dean, taking the ice pack away from the teen's ankle, and grabbing the gauze. 

    "Bobby should be here in about ten minutes," Castiel commented when he was in the middle of wrapping Dean's ankle, pausing for a second whenever Dean let out any sound of pain. Dean nodded and stared as the Castiel finished wrapping his ankle, moving to get up once Castiel put away the gauze. He was stopped by Castiel's hand on his shoulder, keeping him on the hard bed, "That's not the best thing to do right now, you risk damaging more than you already have," He informed Dean, use a patronising tone. Dean rolled his eyes and picked up his stuff, standing up, almost immediately falling back onto the bed. He grimaced at Castiel's little smile, knowing that the smug bastard was enjoying the fact that Dean was just proving his statement. He nodded to Castiel, knowing the blue-eyed man would understand the little movement. With that, Castiel took his stuff, holding it under one of his arms, and using his other to sling one of Dean's arms over his shoulder, placing his hand underneath Dean's armpit. Dean huffed at being helped but knew he needed it. He walked next to Castiel, going back to Bobby's office, and ignoring the stares that were thrown their way. He was placed into the chair he was in when Castiel first saw him. 

    Bobby barged into the room a few minutes later, and Dean felt a pang of guilt at the man's put-off appearance. Once his eyes landed on Dean, Dean saw the man calm down somewhat, but still looked a bit distraught. "Fine, Castiel, you have the case. Go to the morgue, leave me with Dean," Castiel nodded at the order, but didn't smile like Dean thought he would've at the prospect of getting in on a case like Miko Yuki's. Instead, when he was about to leave, he looked back to Bobby, "I wrapped Dean's ankle, but you should warn him to be more careful. Next time he may have to go to the hospital. It was even a pretty close call this time," He informed the older male, turning and walking out of the room. Bobby turned to him, and Dean sighed, getting ready to hear one of Bobby's famously long lectures. But, all he got, surprisingly, was a, "I know this is hard Dean, but no one can help you if you don't want to help yourself,"  

    Dean breath caught at those words, and he looked down at his sketch book. That hit a little too close to home for his liking. But, that was probably the point. He knew it was true, no one could fix him, pick up all his broken pieces if he wanted the pieces to stay where they were. If he didn't want to try and get rid of all the bad thoughts in his mind, or all the darkness inside of him. And right now, Dean didn't know if he did want anyone to do all that. Even so, he knew he didn't have to have someone to help him to do that, but it would help. Dean was tired, tired of doing everything for himself, tired of doing everything for everyone else. For once, he just wanted to be happy, was that too much to ask? He just wanted to be able to smile and talk freely. He wanted Sam to be by his side. He wanted both his parents, he wanted them to watch him play sports like regular parents did. He didn't want to be a freak show that never spoke, and that had nightmares on the rare occasions that he actually slept. He didn't want to be the guy that seemed way too broken to be fixed. 

    And, he had to take that into account. Who would be able to put up with his stubbornness, his self-hatred, and his constant need for affection? God, nobody would ever want him. He couldn't even take care of himself, how was he supposed to care for someone else. The person would deserve better, better than Dean, who was a broken, empty shell of who he was before the shit hit the fan. 

    Dean shook himself out of the thoughts, seeing Bobby working already, and paying no attention to Dean. He'd already forced another person away from him, probably the person that cared the most. Great, Dean, really good move there, he thought bitterly as he opened his sketch book to a new page, drawing something without really knowing what it was. That was how a lot of his drawings were, he drew when he was so overcome with emotions, that it just spilt onto the page, and he had no idea what he was actually drawing. Sometimes it was something good, and other time it was just scribbles that had no meaning. This time though, it seemed to be a monster. It was a close in on the persons face, with dark eyes and ugly markings all over his face. He had two horns protruding from his forehead, playing to the widely known superstition that the devil had horns. Overall, it was just a very evil-looking monster. And Dean couldn't tell if it was himself or the monsters that haunted him. At this point in time, it was rather hard to tell the difference. 

    Dean was nasty to people sometimes, mainly due to the fact that he himself was damaged. He had to damage everyone around him as well. He fought back tears, and ripped out a piece of his notepad, writing a small note on it to give to Bobby. 'I'm going to stop by the morgue to thank Castiel,' Was what he wrote. That wasn't what he was actually planning to do, obviously, but it was something that would make sure Bobby didn't worry about him and gave him plenty of time. He slid it over to Bobby, who gave a slight nod as Dean fled the room. He went back into the broom closet he was in before Castiel had fetched him and fixed up his ankle. He slid back into the position he was sitting in, not moving to draw or anything, mostly just staring at the wall. That seemed to be a reoccurring theme in Dean's life recently. He sighed and closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall, and actually feeling a bit tired. 


End file.
